Pieces on the Board
by PhoenixVictoria
Summary: Magneto is recaptured after the Alkali Lake incident. Every prison psychologist who takes a look at him eventually ends up running for the hills- except for Theresa Cain, who doesn't really seem to understand the concept of self-preservation. Magneto/OC
1. Chapter 1

Theresa Cain was not happy.

Actually, that was a bit of an understatement. _Not happy_ implied that whoever had aroused her fury had a halfway decent chance of surviving it_. Murderously enraged _might be more accurate. _Seriously pissed off_ could work. Whatever you called it, Theresa was ready to commit murder- though in all fairness, it would have been in self-defense.

And okay, maybe she should have stayed out of it. Her opponents, a couple of drunk, thick-waisted lumberjack types, dwarfed her petite frame, and her bouncy black curls, veined with surprisingly little silver for a woman whose fifty-seventh birthday had been three months ago, barely reached the chin of the shortest of the Friends of Humanity thugs- to say nothing of the tactical issues revolving around fighting in a pencil skirt and bare feet. (She had, of course, shed her high heels at the mouth of the alleyway.)

While she had taken various self-defense classes over the years, she was outnumbered by the three men (she could expect little help from the groaning heap of bruises and orange-striped hair behind her) and her pepper spray was at home. Her only weapon was her small, black leather purse, containing Chap Stick, a checkbook, her cell phone, a small hand mirror, roughly seventy-five dollars in cash, credit cards, and gum. The three men, while absurdly drunk for six o'clock in the morning, had still retained enough mental faculties to recognize a mutant, drag him to one of the more secluded alleyways of Richmond, Virginia, and gag him so no one would hear him yelling as they beat the tar out of him. That put paid to the theory that they would be too drunk to put up a decent fight.

Despite the gag, the unfortunate mutant had managed a few pathetic grunts that Theresa had followed with difficulty to their source. She knew the back alleyways of Richmond better than most, but she had gotten a bit turned around. As a result, their victim was in truly pathetic shape by the time she arrived. His muffled, whimpering wheezes had given Theresa the initial spurt of rage necessary to spur her to kick off her shoes, launch herself across the alley, and punch one of the men (the largest, with a mutton-chop beard grossly ill-suited to his flabby face) smack in his jeering mouth. She had been so enraged she had not considered the possible ramifications of her actions.

Now, however, with bleeding knuckles, glass-pricked feet, and a group of three large, not-quite-sober, and decidedly irritated men closing in on her and her defendant, she was starting to get a little antsy.

_This is a great way to start my morning._

Actually, her morning had started out pretty decently. She had gotten up at five, (as was her wont) with her grey tabby Hector curled up on her face (as was his wont.) She had showered, dressed, blow-dried her hair, applied the bare minimum of make-up, and taken coffee and a bagel out on the terrace, along with her daily copy of _The New York Times._ Surrounded by carefully cultivated window boxes and ivy trellises, she had perused the articles. The sun had not been up quite yet, the sky was swollen with gray-bellied clouds, and the sweltering summer heat of Richmond had yet to make an appearance. Her coffee was black, treacly, and tar-like- one of the disadvantages of working as a government-employed psychologist was that you got used to their standard-issue caffeine-in-a-cup-with-a-dash-of-water. She had read her newspaper carefully (dwelling longest on the front-page story, MUTANT HENRY MCCOY APPOINTED TO CABINET! FRIENDS OF HUMANITY STAGE PROTEST IN WASHINGTON!) before shoving Hector off her lap and starting the long walk to the subway station. There were very few people outside this early in the morning, so she had been enjoying the peace and considering a stop at Starbucks for some coffee with actual flavor when she had overhead laughter and the aforementioned agonized grunts from the back of a dilapidated Chinese restaurant.

"'The hell you _doin_', lady?" one of the men slurred. He had an enormous pimple on the side of his nose. "You don' look like no mutant."

'_You don't look like no mutant?' Who the hell taught this imbecile to speak?_ Aloud, she said, "I'm not a mutant. I'm just not letting you beat one up for no reason." She forced her tone to remain calm, almost conversational, despite the waves of fear and fury running through her entire body. She clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking.

"We _got_ a reason, _bitch_," Mutton Chops snarled at her, wiping blood off his chin. "We's showin' him freaks like him ain't wanted 'round here."

"I think he's got the lesson. You should go now." Even as she said that, she knew the men wouldn't leave. God damn it, she berated herself, why hadn't she called the police before coming down here? _Oh, right. Because I'm an idiot._

"We ain't goin' no where," snapped the man with the pimple. She couldn't keep her eyes off it. Seriously, if that thing got any bigger it would start developing its own gravitational pull.

"Yeah," said the third, swaying slightly, the drunkest of the lot. "Weesh doink our shivic duty by protecting hupa- humatity- people."

"And you've done a fine job," she soothed. She was too old for this, dammit. And she was going to miss her train. "However, you might get in trouble if you continue. There _are _limits to what the police are willing to ignore." Sadly, not enough of them. Richmond was famous for it's mutant hate crimes, and equally famous for the ratio of _unsolved_ mutant hate crimes- far too many to be written off as simple incompetence. _First African Americans, now mutants- Richmond, Virginia, supporting bigotry and discrimination since 1781._

"Listen, boys. I think you should leave right now, before the police get here." She was bluffing, of course, but they couldn't know that, could they?

"Sorry, lady," said the Pimple. "We ain't going nowhere."

'_We ain't going nowhere?' Oh, for the love of-_

"I realize you're drunk, but could you at least make an effort to speak _English?_" Pimple exchanged a confused glance with Mutton Chops, and while he was distracted, she brought her foot up hard between his legs.

He doubled over with a groan and she kneed him in the face, taking a sort of grim satisfaction in the crunch of his breaking nose. Mutton Chops came at her from the right and she slammed her heel into his kneecap and hit him over the head with her purse. Pimple collapsed at her feet, presumably unconscious, as Mutton Chops staggered backwards, toppling into a dumpster. She turned to face the drunkest one in time to get backhanded in the mouth hard enough to make her see stars.

The slap knocked her off her feet. She ended up sprawled on the ground beside the orange-haired mutant, up against the filthy brick wall of the alleyway. He looked up at her. Though his left eye was swollen shut, his right was pupil-less black, hazy with pain and fear. Sharp green teeth peeked over a dirty gray strip of cloth.

Mutton Chops was flailing around in the dumpster, his erratic motions occasionally sending rotted Lo Mein over the side. Hopefully, his shouted expletives would attract the attentions of a police officer.

Theresa rolled to the side to avoid a kick from the drunk one, aimed at her ribs. The floor beneath her was truly disgusting.

_Damn,_ she thought, strangely lucidly for her current situation. _This was my favorite skirt._

She managed to scramble to her feet. The drunk one was hissing expletives, only a few of which she could understand. She replied with the kind of suggestion fifty-seven-year-old women were not expected to know, much less utter, before trying to kick him in the groin- hey, it worked once, right? Unfortunately, this one was quicker- he leapt back, staggering drunkenly. Sensing an opportunity, Theresa leaned down, seizing a handful of cold, greasy noodles to fling in his face. He retreated with a yelp. Theresa looked around, spotted a half-rotted two-by-four against the wall opposite the mutant, and scooped it up. The drunk one had barely finished clawing moldy Lo Mien out of his hair when she hit him with a strike that would have made Babe Ruth proud. He collapsed beside Pimple.

Theresa barely had time to savor a moment of triumph before a dirty hand entangled itself in her hair and yanked backwards. Crying out in pain, she once again found herself on the floor of the alleyway.

"Mutie-loving _bitch!_" shouted Mutton Chops, and he drew back his leg to kick her. A split second before he made contact, a flare of violet light slammed into him, knocking him into the side of the Chinese restaurant. Dust plumed around him.

Theresa turned her head to the side so fast she got a crick in her neck. The mutant she had tried to rescue had staggered to his knees. His hands stretched out in front of him like he was warding someone away, or pleading benediction from the gods, or throwing purple lightning. Theresa suspected it was the latter-which probably said something about the wierdness of her life right there.

All she could think to ask was "Why didn't you do that earlier?"

The orange-haired mutant laughed hollowly. Under the blood, he was younger-looking than she'd thought he was- though it was hard to tell, with mutants. The laugh chilled her- he sounded like a forty-year-old veteran with bullet wounds that ached whenever it rained, not a nineteen-year-old kid. "Because if I'd used my mutant powers, without a _normal_ person around to vouch for me, I would end up in jail for attacking the helpless FoH members."

Theresa winced. He was right, of course.

"In fact," the kid continued dully, "I'll probably go to jail anyway. Everyone knows FoH lawyers are the best, and I hear they work free of charge against muties."

Theresa glared. "First off, 'mutie' is a derogatory slur you will not utilize in my presence or in reference to yourself _ever again._ Secondly, I know that, which is why-" she scrambled across the alleyway and pulled her cell phone out of her purse- "I'm going to pull a few strings with my boss. Thirdly-" she hit a few buttons, waiting for it to wake up- "How old are you, kid?"

"I'm not a kid."

"Compared to me, anyone younger than thirty's a kid. How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven'" he said sullenly.

"Then you're too young to be cynical. Act your age."

The kid gave her a one-eyed glare, which had exactly zero effect on her. Racquella's glares had never worked either.

"If I'm too young to be cynical, you're too old to be brawling in back alleys. Why should I listen to you?" He demanded as she dialed 911.

She gave him her patented _look_ as she explained the situation and location to the operator. "-just off Forty-Fifth and Van Buren… nah, they're not waking up any time soon… five minutes… good." She hung up.

"How about the fact that I just saved your life, hmm? You're welcome, by the way."

He had the grace to look embarrassed.

"Thank you very much, Ms…"

"No Ms., kid, just Theresa."

"Miss Theresa, then. Why exactly _did_ you save me? I'm grateful and all, but you said earlier you're not a mutant…

"You think all humans are scum like these?" _Uh-oh. I need to nip this in the bud right now. _"Be careful, kid. That way of thinking leads to a very long, slippery slope ending with genocide and a gay-looking purple cape."

_That_ managed to startle a laugh from him- a real laugh, one that sounded happy as opposed to mocking.

"You're talking about Magneto, right?" The kid leaned forward avidly. "I heard they captured him. I also heard he was behind that mental attack thingy last month- first all the mutants, then all the humans?"

Theresa nodded. "I heard that too- why mutants first, though?"

He shrugged. "No idea. Maybe it wasn't his idea? There are plenty of people who'd love to hurt mutants." He nodded at the three limp FoH members.

Theresa chewed her lip, considering. That sounded fairly likely- "I'd _kill_ for a conversation with that guy, you know."

"_Magneto?_ You'd kill for a conversation with _Magneto_? Exactly how hard did that guy hit you?"

"Ha ha ha. I'm a criminal psychologist. I work for the government, though I do some local crap too- that's why I said I'd talk to my boss, he's buddies with the DA. Talking to people who want to kill me is kind of my job. What's your name, kid?"

"Jason. Jason Fitzpatrick." He extended his hand to shake, offering her an impish grin. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

"Theresa."

"Yes ma'am."

She glared, but did not respond. There was a moment of silence, during which Theresa texted her boss that she was going to be late, and pulled out her mirror to take a look at her rapidly swelling bottom lip, before Jason asked "so where were you?"

"Care to get a little more specific, kid?"

"During that mental spike, last month," he clarified. "What were you doing?"

"Having hot chocolate with my niece, just before bed. Racquella's a mutant, so she went down first- one moment we were talking about her college and the next thing I knew she was on the ground, hot chocolate everywhere, screaming her head off…

Theresa shuddered at the memory. It had been the most terrifying moment of her life- even worse than being mentally assaulted herself. "It stopped in a minute, but I barely had time to feel relieved before…

"It hit you?"

"Yeah. Where were you?"

"In a coffee shop. There's one on Arbor Street that's friendly to mutants- when the manager's not working, anyway. One moment I'm getting my donut and half-caf, and next thing you know I'm flailing around on the ground. Not fun."

"Understatement of the century, kid."

Jason nodded emphatically. "What does your niece do?"

"She's a telepath. Completely involuntary, can't do a whole lot with it other than know what you're thinking and talk in your head, if she knows you well enough. I basically raised her- her parents kicked her out when she… ah…

"Came out?" Jason offered with a snigger.

"Yes, came out, when she was ten. Of course, she did it by revealing my brother's long-standing affair with his secretary over Mother's Day brunch, in front of her mother, my parents, _and_ my brother Tommy's brother-in-law, who punched him in the face and flung him into the pool."

"Wow. Mine showed up when I was throwing a football. Dad was pretty understanding about the shed."

Theresa laughed. "In any case, she showed up on my doorstep three weeks later, and-"

The conversation was interrupted by the (late) arrival of the cops. Theresa gave her statement and offered the recording, submitted to a cursory medical examination, and made an appointment to talk with the sergeant on Tuesday. The police, while polite, were nonetheless obvious in their disapproval for her actions- though whether it was saving a mutant or interfering at all without calling them, it was difficult to say. As she scooped up her heels at the mouth of the alleyway, Jason caught up with her.

"Listen, ma'am," he said awkwardly, hands shoved in pockets, "I, uh, I need to thank you again. If you hadn't showed up…"

"Don't mention it, kid," Theresa said, grinning at his obvious discomfort. It was kind of cute, in a puppy-that-just-peed-on-the-carpet kind of way. "I'm always happy to help."

"Yeah, um, great. Thanks. Listen, um… if there's any way I can make it up to you…

"Really, kid. It wasn't any trouble."

He looked at her for a moment, then ran disbelieving eyes over her body. She followed his look, taking in her scratched and bruised legs, her torn skirt, encrusted with something she really hoped was dirt, and her wrinkled shirt, the collar covered in blood from her bleeding lip. She couldn't see her face, which was probably a good thing, but her hair hung in scraggly lumps around her head, and her lip had started to throb.

"Okay, maybe it was a _little_ trouble."

"Ya think? Listen, at least let me buy you a coffee."

"Aren't I a little old for you, kid?"

He sputtered hilariously for several seconds. Theresa grinned. "I'd love a coffee, kid, but I've gotta clean up and get to work."

Jason finally stopped sputtering. "Saturday, then. Ten o'clock. Meet me outside the history museum- that's where I work."

"Racquella's in town this Saturday- d'you mind if I bring her?"

"Sure. I'd love to meet someone who could put up with you for eight years, if only to offer my condolences."

Theresa laughed, ruffled his orange hair, and began the long walk back to her apartment. She seriously needed a shower.


	2. Chapter 2

She went home, showered, and dressed. There was no saving her clothes, unfortunately, so she flung them in the trash, dabbing iodine and aloe vera on the worst of her wounds. One or two of the scratches on her legs would probably scar, and her lip burned even after she put ice on it, but like the police officer had said- she wouldn't be running marathons any time soon, but she didn't need any medical attention.

"Of course," she told Hector, "the floor of that alley was filthy as heck. So I'll probably pick up AIDS or cholera or sepsis and die an agonizing death in a hospital room with half my limbs rotted off."

Hector looked at her a moment, then went back to licking his paw with a disinterested meow.

"Sure, you say that now, but just wait 'till you're living in Racquella's dorm room with sorority parties every night and her roommate sneaking in boys every five minutes."

Unsurprisingly, Hector did not respond.

"Oh, crap," she realized. "I'm talking to my cat."

Theresa rushed to the train station- in a taxi, this time- and took the train to a tiny station on the outskirts of Somerset, Virginia, an equally tiny town forty miles north of Richmond. Blinking as she exited the cool dark of the station (the clouds had disappeared as soon as the sun came up) she looked around for her ride, finally spotting the armored jeep at the bottom of the gray stone steps. As she began her descent (careful of her high heels) a caramel brown head stuck itself out of the front right window.

"_Vengate con prisa, doctora!"_ yelled Francisco Alvarez. "_El jefe_ just texted me- Juggernaut's refusing to see anyone but you!"

Theresa cupped her hands around her mouth like a bullhorn. "You think we'll get there faster if I break my ankle, Alvarez?"

As she drew closer, she could make out Francisco- a grinning man of about thirty-five with Latino features and clear, liquid brown eyes. "We don't need your legs, _doctora_," he said with a grin as she approached the car. "Just your mouth. Although your legs are, of course, love- _dios mio, doctora,_ what happened to _you_?"

"Got in a bar fight," she said airily as Jonathan Myers, the driver, yanked Francisco back through the window and shoved him back in his seat, gawping at her. Jon was the personification of gentle giant- six-four and built like a linebacker, with a square jaw, bushy brown eyebrows, and muscles on top of his muscles. He could have been a boxing heavyweight champion if he hadn't been such a devout pacifist.

"A bar fight," he repeated skeptically as she got into the back seat. He began to roll up the windows.

"Yep. They caught me cheating at poker, so I kicked all their asses."

Both of the men laughed, and they spent the entire thirty-minute drive to the prison telling stories about the bar fights they'd been in, each more fantastical than the last.

"So I say to her, I say, _chica_, why you hangin around with this loser? And she says to me, because he's good-looking. And I say, that's only 'cause-"

"For gods' sake, Alvarez," hissed Jon as they pulled up to the gate. "Shut up!" The gate guard checked under the car, looked through the windows, and waved them through.

"You got to tell the one about the goat in the dress! And I don't care how drunk you were, _amigo_, that did _not_ happen!"

"Yeah? Well-"

Theresa tuned out their bickering with practiced ease. Before her sprawled the VDFDCM, or the Virginia Detainment Facility for Dangerous Criminal Mutants. It's gloomy grey cement walls and ruthlessly pruned shrubbery stood at odds with the sprawling green hills that surrounded it on all sides, and it's height (six stories) made it seem like the stereotypical villains' lair in a cartoon. Even on sunny days like this one, Theresa still expected to see storm clouds swirling around the tallest tower.

Grabbing her purse, Theresa gingerly eased her aching body out of the car, bidding farewell to Francisco and Jon. Theresa walked up the cement pathway to enter the refreshingly cool lobby. As she submitted to a pat-down and purse search, Jeanette, the receptionist, waved at her from her desk and pointed to the elevator.

"Warden Braxton wants to see you! Should I let him know you're- girl, what happened to _you_?"

"Bus accident. Yes, let him know I'm here."

Theresa endured six stories worth of elevator music and the suspicious stare of a newbie elevator guard before arriving at the executive level of the building. As head psychologist, her office was up here too.

She walked down the carpeted hallway, knocked on the wooden door marked "Jonah Braxton, Warden," and received a gruff "come in." She did so, only to halt in surprise at the three unexpected occupants of the office.

"Ms. Cain?" asked the first. "Hello, I'm-"

"Henry McCoy," she said, holding a hand out to shake. "Congratulations on your promotion. From what I've heard you deserve it. " He took her hand, shaking it carefully to avoid cutting her with his claws. She managed not to stare, but it was difficult-he was very large, and very blue.

He looked pleased, though it wasn't easy to tell. "Thank, you, Ms Cain," he said in a rich baritone. "Though I fear others may not share your opinion."

"Then we shall pity them for their ignorance and flip them off when they're not looking."

"God, girl," burst out Jonah from behind his desk. He had blue eyes, and the iron of his hair reflected his personality. "What happened to you?"

Theresa extended her hand to the bald man in the wheelchair. "Hello, Ms. Cain. I am Professor Charles Xavier." He had an English accent and impossibly wise eyes.

"Hello, Professor. I've read your thesis on the death of the Neanderthals."

"Did it worry you?"

"A bit- but I like to think we've evolved since then," she said with a wink. He laughed, and introduced the man standing behind him. "This is Logan- he's a professor at my school."

"Teacher," corrected the burly, handsome man standing behind him. "Teacher, bodyguard, babysitter, chauffeur- but I ain't no professor."

She laughed and shook his hand. "I get the feeling you've said that before."

He cracked a smile. "A million times, ma'am. Chuck here uses 'professor' like you wouldn't believe."

"Hello? I hate to interrupt your little introductory love-fest over here, but I asked you a question, Cain."

"Oh, this? Some bimbo waitress was flirting with my date, so I punched her in the face."

Logan gave a mock-impressed whistle. "Didja break her nose?"

"Knocked her out cold, but the hostess jumped me from behind."

"Girl, one day you're gonna make me jump off this roof, I swear to God."

Theresa gave him a concerned look. "If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, then as a registered psychologist I am required to-"

"Cain, shut up. We've got a new patient for you."

Theresa frowned. "And you called me to your office for this because…"

"You might wanna sit down for this, lady," Logan advised. "And if you got a family history of heart issues-"

"Pal, I am fifty-seven years old and I run four miles every other day. The day I have a heart attack it the day Jo-Jo here dances the can-can with Juggernaut. Speaking of which, the guy's asking for me, so…"

"Forget Juggernaut," Jonah said, pushing a file across his desk. "You got bigger problems."

"Only metaphorically," snorted Logan, "because there ain't much literally bigger than that guy.

Theresa barely heard him. The file was labeled _Erik Lensherr- alias, Magneto._

She sat down hard, clutching the file to her chest.

_Wow. And I didn't even have to kill anyone. _

"Christ, Jonah, how the hell do I get this?" Theresa demanded when she had recovered her breath.

Jonah snorted in irritation and flung back a gulp of espresso like he wanted it to be whiskey. For all she knew, it was. "You get the looney-tunes, Cain, 'cause you're the best we got."

"Shouldn't he be in the prison up in Washington?" Theresa asked.

Secretary McCoy grimaced. "He broke out of that one already."

"Why not Area 51, then?" She ran her fingers over the name on the file.

"Erik's most common associate," explained Professor Xavier, "is a shape-shifter, called Ra-_Mystique_. She was not captured with him. As such, she would expect him to be imprisoned in Area 51, and, indeed, the electronic trail leads there, but-"

"But it's a trap, yeah. How well did you know them, Professor?"

Everyone in the room- with the exception of Jonah, who had seen her do that before- looked astonished.

McCoy fixed Jonah with a glare. "I thought you said she wasn't a mutant."

"She's not, fur ball," said Logan, leaning in and sniffing at the back of her head. "You c'n smell that better'n I can."

"_She_ is still in the room," Theresa said absently, pulling a picture out of the file. "and I'm not a mutant, but reading people's kinda my job. The telepath is my niece. Also, stop sniffing me."

The professor snapped his fingers. "Racquella Cain! I knew there was something familiar about you! I offered your niece a place at my school almost twelve years ago." He frowned. "You were rather- abrasive- in your refusal, as I recall."

Theresa laughed, examining the picture. Magneto had the distinguished, graying-haired look of an elder statesman, only a few years older than herself. Privately, she thought he was handsome. "You _can_ just say it, Professor. I know I was a total bitch." She pinned him to the wall with a look as Logan and Jonah laughed and McCoy gave a scandalized yelp. "I also know you're trying to distract me." The laughter died abruptly. "How well did you know him?"

The professor sighed. "A long time ago, he was my closest friend. We parted- badly- and he took Raven- my sister- with him."

Theresa took note of the way he glanced down at his wheelchair as he said the word 'badly.' "How long ago?"

"Oh, almost forty years," the professor said, waving a dismissive hand.

"How old was he then?"

"Twenty-eight."

Theresa's jaw dropped. "There is no way this guy is seventy." She looked at Logan and McCoy. "There's no way any of you are seventy."

The professor smiled at her. "Our mutations have a tendency to slow down our aging. Logan here has a healing factor- he hasn't aged since he reached maturity."

"However long ago _that _was," Logan added with a snort.

Theresa was intrigued. "You don't remember how old you are?"

"I don't remember anything, doc. Fifteen years ago I woke up on a place called Three Mile Island."

_Ooo, a mystery._ "Any clues?"

She received a shrug in reply. "William Stryker knew who I was. But I tied him to a concrete pylon in the middle of a lakebed."

"_Colonel _William Stryker? _That_ jackass?"

Logan grinned. "You knew him?"

"He got drunk at a party twenty or so years ago and grabbed my ass. I punched him in the face and got thrown out." She considered. "Listen, Logan, I've been in this business for a while, and I've got some pretty decent security clearance, plus a niece who can hack just about anything-"

Jonah plugged his ears. "La la la la la, I can't hear you, I can't hear you-"

"-So if you want me to, I'll do some digging."

Logan looked at her steadily. There was something a tad unsettling about his eyes- like meeting eyes with a wolf.

"That'd be great, Doc. If you find anything, you can call me-" he snatched a piece of paper off the desk, scribbled a number on it, and gave it to her- "right here. And if you find anything about Alkali Lake-"

"Alkali Lake?" She scribbled the place down on the sheet of paper, then raised an eyebrow at him. "Mr. Stryker wouldn't happen to be at the _bottom_ of this lake, would he?"

"I figured he deserved it, given the whole "genocide" thing."

"Logan!" Hissed McCoy.

"Wha- _shit_!"

"Relax, you two, I've got clearance. Nevertheless, I usually prefer to hear the stories of criminals from criminals themselves, so if you could kindly desist revealing important information? And no, professor, I don't want you to make me forget it."

Logan still looked embarrassed. "Sorry, Doc. You're too damn easy to talk to."

"That's kind of my job." She turned to Jonah, who still had his fingers in his ears and was humming loudly. He snapped her fingers in front of his face to get his attention. "When do I start with this guy?"

"You finish today's patients, including Juggernaut-" Theresa had already noted the professor's almost imperceptible twitch when Juggernaut was mentioned, but she paused to observe it again- "and he gets here Friday. You wanna call him right in to interrogation?"

"Call him in?" she snickered. "God no. I'll go to him. And I'll give him tomorrow and the weekend to settle in."

The professor looked pleased, but Secretary McCoy gave a worried cough. "Ms. Cain, I feel I must warn you that he received psychologists in prison before now. Generally he just ignored them but- but Magneto is a very dangerous man, and we have yet to craft recording instruments or cameras of plastic and glass, so if you speak with him unaccompanied, as you appear to prefer, you will be completely alone with him for long stretches of time. The man is stubborn and unreasonable, and he will hate you on sight simply because of what you are. I do not mean to insult your ability, but…

"But you want me to understand that this isn't going to be a walk in the park," Theresa said. "That's okay. Walks in the park bore me."

The professor had been growing steadily tenser with every word McCoy spoke about his old friend. His tone, however, retained its' usual serenity as he spoke. "I can't thank you enough, Ms. Cain."

Theresa stood up, straightening her blouse. "It's really no trouble, professor. I'm always happy to help."

"Yeah, yeah. Regular Mother Theresa, aren't you, Cain?" Jonah snapped. "I want that report from Toad about the device Magneto built on my desk _yesterday_."

Logan's eyebrows shot up. "Toad's _alive?_"

"When we first got him?" Theresa shook hands with the professor and McCoy. "Barely."

She extended her right hand to Logan, his number still clenched in her left. "I'll call you if I find anything," she promised.

"Thanks, Doc."

Pausing only to kiss Jonah on the cheek (he grumbled, but bent over so she could reach) she left the office without looking back. She had patients to see.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: So, what does everyone think so far? Reviews would be much appreciated. I've got quite a few chapters in storage that I'll post when I can, but after that I'm thinking I'll post about a chapter a week, usually on Saturday. Enjoy!

As usual, Theresa left her purse, shoes, cell phone, and everything in her pockets (lint, a few gum wrappers, a pen, and some loose change) sitting in front of the metal detector for cellblock 3A. Since Stanley Hunt was on guard duty (and because he was a block-headed, mutant-hating, nosy jerk who thought he was god's gift to women, young and ol- young and _not so young_) she'd folded up her note from Logan and shoved it down her bra. He would pat her down, of course, put if he managed to find it, she wouldn't be the only one with bruises.

Sure enough, he leered at her. "Hello, _Theresa,_" he said, in what was probably intended to be a suave manner. Stan was about fifty, with a large potbelly and a stupid, flabby face that reminded her a little too much of Mutton Chops from this morning. "Ready to go change the freaks' diapers?"

"It's Ms. Cain, actually," she said shortly. "_Doctor_ Cain, if you want to be accurate."

He was leaning against the desk, holding his nightstick in one hand and occasionally smacking it against the meaty palm of the other. _Smack. Smack. Smack._ The sound grated on Theresa's nerves.

He giggled. Yes, actually giggled. "Don't be like that, baby." He tried to wiggle his eyebrows but ended up crossing his eyes instead.

"Doctor Cain. Buzz me through."

"Gotta pat you down, first." He winked. "How'd you get the fat lip, sweetheart?"

"Cage fighting. You can call a female guard to pat me down."

"Cage fighting, huh?" Smack. Smack. "Sounds a little violent for you, babe-"

"-Doctor Cain-"

"-but hey, whatever floats your boat, right?" He got off the desk and smirked stupidly at her. "In fact, maybe later tonight you can come over to my place and show me a few moves."

Normally, Theresa just endured it, but her lip was throbbing, visions of Magneto killing her were running through her head, and she'd had to endure the paranoia of the elevator guard for five minutes straight.

So today, she snapped. She'd always had a pretty explosive temper anyway.

"WHAT PART OF _DOCTOR_ CAIN IS TOO DIFFICULT TO UNDERSTAND, ASSHOLE? IF YOU CALL ME THERESA, BABY, DARLING, SWEETCHEEKS, OR ANY OTHER UNIMAGINATIVE PET NAME _ONE MORE TIME_, I WILL SLAP YOU WITH A SEXUAL HARRASSMENT LAWSUIT SO FAST YOUR HEAD WILL _SPIN_!"

He cowered away from the force of her rage. It was somewhat gratifying, but not gratifying enough.

"IF YOU REFER TO MY PATIENTS AS FREAKS ONE MORE TIME, YOU PATHETIC LARDBALL, I WILL REMOVE YOUR MININSCULE GENATALIA WITH A RUSTY SPOON AND REPORT YOU TO THE WARDEN!"

He was sputtering now, but she wasn't quite finished.

I WOULDN'T GO OUT WITH YOU IF YOU WERE THE LAST MALE ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH! I WOULDN'T TOUCH YOU WITH A TEN-FOOT POLE, _JACKASS!_ NOW OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR AND PUT DOWN THAT PAINFULLY OBVIOUS ATTEMPT AT OVERCOMPENSATION BEFORE I SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS!"

He was so pale Theresa feared he might have a heart attack. Moving carefully, and not daring to take his eyes off her (what, like she was going to strangle him? She doubted her hands would fit around his neck) he pressed the buzzer. She stalked forward, flung open the first heavy steel door, and waited for it to lock behind her before opening the next door, using all her strength to slam it into the concrete wall behind it. She stomped into the visitor's room of cellblock 3A, curls askew and blue eyes blazing, only to be greeted by a thunderous round of applause. Various inmates and their family members, scattered around the room, clapped loudly, and a few even whistled. She turned bright red.

"Damn," said Robbie Lincore, seated across the chess table from his teenage daughter Lillian. "You certainly told him, Doc."

"God," Theresa said involuntarily, covering her face with her hands with a humiliated groan. "Did you guys hear that whole thing?"

"Every word of it, sweetheart," cackled Eddie Eldritch, nicotine-roughened voice filled with malicious glee.

"Don't call her sweetheart, Eddie!" Sean DiAngeli said with a grin. "She might shove a cigarette-"

The room erupted into raucous laughter, and Theresa rolled her eyes.

The regular inmates in cellblock 3A were all lesser criminals- thieves, con men, those guilty (or, occasionally, not guilty) of assault. (The one exception was Juggernaut.) Few had sentences longer than five years. While most had an intense dislike for "shrinks" at first, Theresa was very good at getting people to like her- and the fact was, she genuinely liked most of them, as well. Cellblock 3A, in her opinion, was filled with good people who had either been desperate or made mistakes.

Of course, some of them still refused to talk at all during their sessions, or talked about nothing of real importance. Theresa, who felt that you could learn a lot from casual conversation, always made sure to listen carefully.

She made her way through the room, stopping to chat with a few friends and reminding Paul Davidson that she needed to see him when she was done with Juggernaut. He waved a tail in acknowledgement and continued dealing. There were about twenty-five inmates in the room- the facility contained 750 in total, but most required constant confinement. The specialized cells, for the most powerful mutants, were scattered at random intervals around the building, to make things lest devastating in the event of a breakout. Of course, the cell doors were metal, so if Magneto broke out…

_I wonder how far his power extends, _she thought_. He'll probably be willing to talk about that- flattery might be the best course of action with this guy anyway. He'll probably be sharp enough to catch anything hidden- I could go the blatant route, then. I hate bowing and scraping to my patients, but if there's important info on the line…_

The guards outside Juggernaut's cell checked her ID, unlocked the deadbolt, typed in the code, and e-mailed the password to a guard watching over the security cameras. Not everyone got such high security, of course, but as Juggernaut had been rather delighted to know, he got special treatment- he'd called it "only fitting."

She'd gotten enough psychological implications off that particular comment to make her criminology teacher in college _cry._

The door swung open with a pneumatic hiss. Theresa flung her shoulders back and entered. "Hello, Cain," she said with a smile. It was a real smile, too- she _did_ love her job, for all it was a pain in the ass.

"'Ello, Cain," he said with a grin. He was cuffed tightly to a large metal chair across the table from her usual seat. There was a checkers board sitting there already- apparently whoever had tried to talk to him when she'd been late had tried her favorite tactic with the more difficult patients. She wondered if that would work on Magneto.

"While I won't pretend I'm not flattered," she said, plopping into her chair, "you _are_ eventually going to have to learn to talk to other people."

"Why?" he asked, cocking his head in genuine confusion. "I'm going to get out of here before long."

She raised an eyebrow. "While I wouldn't call this prison impenetrable per se, we've _never_ had a successful escape. And what would you do if you did break out, hmm? Go back to being hired muscle for drug dealers?"

"You're breaking my heart, Cain. Juggernaut's got bigger things in mind." He winked conspiratorially. "And uh, and when I do get out, Cain?" He lowered his voice. "Try to stay out of my way." He winked again. "I like you enough so that I'd hate to kill you."

The threat would have chilled her blood, had she not heard similar things every time she visited cellblock 5. As it was- "I'm trembling in my socks, Cain, I assure you. Now, while you're busy figuring out how to make a knife out of your toothbrush, would you mind taking a moment to satisfy my curiosity?"

He considered. "What's in it for me?"

"The joy of helping others?"

He guffawed and Theresa winced.

"Yeah, yeah, kinda figured you'd say that. Next time I'm here I'll bring you something to read." If they cuffed his hands across his lap he could flip pages. "No porn, but I can manage one of the dirtier Janet Evanovich ones."

"You got a deal, Doc. Wha'd'ya wanna know?"

She hesitated a moment. She was kind of invading someone's privacy. On the other hand, she was curious_. Guess I'm going to hell._

"Tell me everything you know about professor Charles Xavier."

Judging from the delighted grin on his face, this was going to be good.

Her head buzzed with the information from Juggernaut and her impending assignment almost the whole day. She managed to think of other things while conferring with patients. She made what she hoped was a breakthrough with Paul Davidson, finally got Frankie Arontson to give up the name of his partner in crime, was screamed at by two murderers and assaulted by a pedophile- (or at least, he attempted to assault her. She kicked him in the face with her four-inch heel as he lunged across the table, then called the guards.) Jamie Maddrox swore viciously at her and refused to say anything else, and Eleanor Hickins was chatty but refused to say anything of importance.

However, as she left the cellblock and returned to the top floor, the only thoughts buzzing around her head were about the inevitable first interview with the crazed mutant terrorist, and the fact that Juggernaut was Charles Xavier's stepbrother.

_Why wasn't this in the file?_ She rarely read the files before the first meeting with a patient- she hadn't even opened Magneto's, yet, and she wouldn't until after she'd met him Monday, if then- but she'd read Juggernaut's. There had been nothing in there about a stepbrother. _In fact,_ she thought, digging in the H-M drawer of the file cabinet, _there was_ nothing _in there about his childhood, except for a juvie record somewhere in upstate New York. Our biographers are usually better than that…_ Unless, of course, they were under telepathic coercion to leave it alone. She frowned. Charles Xavier had not seemed the type… Of course, she remembered him saying the school was in upstate New York, shortly before she slammed the door in his face. He'd probably done it to protect the students. Still, she would be having words with him when she went to see Logan.

Theresa finished her report and looked at the clock. Six already? She swore loudly and fluidly in Spanish (which was entirely the fault of Francisco Alvarez- she already spoke the language fairly well, but he'd insisted on giving her lessons) before seizing her purse, stuffing her feet back into her uncomfortable heels (god, she hated fashion) and hobbling down the hall as fast as she could. Francisco and Jon had to break several speed limits and take a few bumpy (and possibly illegal) shortcuts, but she arrived at the station in time to catch the six forty-five train.

The train pulled into the station. She caught a taxi home, staggered up the stairs to her apartment, fed Hector, removed all the clothing from her body and tossed it on the floor, and jumped in the shower. The hot water stung her scraped and bruised skin. Her hair collected the water like a sponge, and it's numerous tight curls unraveled, resulting in a tangled mess that went down to her thighs. She shampooed and conditioned four times before exiting the shower and working through it with a comb, which took the better part of an hour. When she finally ceased to resemble the monster from the black lagoon, she dabbed iodine, applied bandages to her various cuts, and downed a few Advil before throwing on an old shirt and a pair of panties and settling down in front of the T'V with Hector on her lap and a huge tub of Rocky Road.

The next morning, she rose, pulled on pants and a bra, and went for her usual run. When she got back, she examined herself in the mirror.

She still had a fat lip of truly epic proportions. Blue and purple bruises marked pale skin. Laugh lines had gathered over the years at the corners of her eyes and mouth, as well as a few worry lines in between her eyebrows. Her hair was as thick now as it had been when she was twenty, and she hadn't gained more than four pounds since then, but grey streaked her black curls. She studied herself and sighed.

The morning passed in a blur. She spoke with patients, argued with guards, and was attacked once more- this time by a bank robber who she hit in the face with her clipboard. Irritated beyond belief- seriously? He thought that would get him somewhere?- she kicked him in the groin on the way out.

As she sat down to lunch in her office- an apple and a protein bar, she didn't have time for more- Jonah came in. She grinned at him around a large chunk of Honeycrisp.

He gave her a strangely uncomfortably smile back. "Hey, Cain. You feelin' any better?"

She swallowed and snickered. "Jonah, I been poppin' Advil like it's candy since I _got_ here this morning. If I was still in pain, it'd be a miracle."

"That wasn't what I was talking about, Cain," he said gently, sitting down in the leather visitors' chair across her desk. "Something's got you all shook up, sweetheart. Why don't you tell me what it is?"

Something about his gentle tone of voice and the way he called her sweetheart made her eyes prick with tears. Jonah Braxton was the only father figure she'd ever had. "Jonah," she said quietly, staring down at her hands, "I didn't get these bruises from a waitress."

"No, _really?_"

"Shut up."

She told him the whole story, ending with her promise to introduce Jason to Racquella on Saturday. When she was finished, he sat back with a whistle. "Well, Cain, first off, I'd just like to make it clear to you that if you ever to anything that stupid again, I _will_ fire you."

Theresa blushed.

"Second, I'm proud of you, sweetheart. That took guts. Thirdly," he gave her a piercing stare- "quit worrying about Racquella. Kid's got your genes, she can take care of herself."

Theresa smiled tiredly. "Fifty-seven years old and already predictable. I know it's not really the same, because she doesn't really show she's a mutant if she doesn't want to, but I just…"

"Can't help but worry?" Jonah suggested with a raised eyebrow. "I _completely _understand that." He gave her a significant look, and then blushed. "Of course," he muttered, and swallowed. "Of course," he said, louder, "you don't have to worry that your surrogate daughter will make stupid-ass decisions like taking on three FoH thugs in back alleys without calling the police first." He was bright pink, now, and seemed unable to look at her. That was okay, because her beaming grin could probably blind anyone who looked directly at it.

She forced down the megawatt smile and leaned across the desk to give him a hug. He smelled like cigar smoke and pine. "I'll be more careful, Jonah, I promise," she whispered in his ear. She sat back. "Any advice about the legal issues here?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Not sure even FoH lawyers can get them out of this one, sweetheart. I'll ask Anna to be sure, but any chance they may have had to claim _he_ attacked _them_ went out the window when you showed up. They can't exactly discredit your testimony- you're a government worker, you've got a Ph.d, you make a six-figure salary and I _know_ you don't have so much as a speeding ticket on record."

"Thanks, Jonah," she whispered, and cleared her throat. "Now shoo," she ordered. "I've got a report to finish."

"While you're on your lunch break? Like hell," Jonah snorted. "Get your ass down to my office, Cain. I wanna know how Racquella's doing, and when you're bringing her to visit me over the summer."

When Theresa got back to her apartment that evening, Racquella was waiting. Seated on the couch, with a curvy figure and pale complexion identical to her aunt's, along with a pair of sky-blue eyes, she held a frantically purring Hector on her lap. When Theresa opened the door her niece flew at her to give her a hug, her mother's auburn hair flying out behind her, before skidding to a stop, arms still outstretched.

"Auntie Theresa?" she asked uncertainly, as Theresa, dropped her purse, kicked off her heels, and embraced her niece. "What happened to _you_?"

"Kid," Theresa said, pulling back and looking up into her eyes. (Racquella had inherited her father's height.) "It is a _very_ long story."


	4. Chapter 4

Theresa was _not_ going to open her eyes.

She and Racquella had stayed up until twelve o'clock catching up. Racquella had listened to her story with the sort of wide-eyed, flattering awe that made Theresa want to ruffle her hair and offer to tuck her in at night. She'd had to settle for a kiss on the cheek and some half-hearted begging ("I know you'll be up at o'dark-thirty, Auntie Theresa, but _please_ don't wake me up before nine!")

Racquella, Theresa admitted grudgingly, had had something of a point. It was barely six, but she had snapped awake at least fifteen minutes ago and had been trying to go back to sleep ever since. Not for the first time, she cursed her inability to sleep past dawn.

Nonetheless, she was not going to open her eyes. She was going to keep them sealed as tight as she possibly could, and she was going to drop off to sleep _soon_. She _was_.

On the other hand, the large cat sleeping on her face was starting to get really irritating…

Thirty minutes later, she was toweling herself off after her shower, and fifteen minutes after that, she burst into Racquella's room, banging two pan lids together. Thirty seconds later, she was smacked in the face by a thick powder-blue pillow, wielded with deadly skill by an extremely irritated young woman who hadn't gotten out of bed before ten in six years, and who hadn't _willingly_ got out of bed before ten since the day she was born.

Theresa gave a long, undulating war cry and snatched up another pillow. By the time Racquella was out of bed and stumbling into her shower with her eyes still closed, Theresa's hair looked like a rabid animal was trying to eat her skull. Groaning, she retreated to her room to tame it.

Looking in the mirror, she was disappointed to see that the swelling in her lip had barely gone down. Most of her other bruises had begun turning an ugly yellowish color.

Giving up on her hair, she stomped into the kitchen. She'd forgone coffee so far this morning, seeing as Jason was buying them breakfast, and was starting to seriously regret it.

Racquella drifted in. Theresa smiled at her. "Morning, dearest niece! Is this not the most glorious time of day?"

Racquella mumbled something unintelligible and unflattering before slumping down on Theresa's long leather couch with a groan.

They arrived in front of the history museum at nine-thirty precisely. Jason met them at the wide marble steps.

"Hey, Miss Theresa," he said, trotting down to meet her, apparently oblivious to the turning heads and disapproving glares. "How are you doing to-" He skidded to a halt, gaping at Racquella. "Oh," he said. "Hi."

"She's not _that _hot, kid. You gonna give us a tour?"

Jason didn't even spare her a glare. "Jason Fitzpatrick, at your service," he said, seizing Racquella's hand and drawing it to his bruised mouth. "I take it you are the legendary Racquella who endured the company of the harpy for so long?"

Racquella smiled. "It is an honor, Jason Fitzpatrick. And I did indeed endure her company- with great difficulty and many, _many_ packages of earplugs."

"Can you guys flirt _without_ insulting me?" Again, neither spared her a glance. It was like she'd fallen off the face of the earth.

"Shall we take a tour, Racquella Cain? I can get you past the lines."

"That would be quite enjoyable, Jason Fitzpatrick." Jason offered her his arm and they began to walk up the stairs. "Coming, Auntie Theresa?"

"Finally remembered I exist now, hmm?" They both ignored her.

Well, crap. Now they were going to date, get married, and have a dozen or so snarky little orange-haired brats with lame senses of humor and a perpetual babysitter in their Auntie Theresa. Not that this was a particularly bad thing, but Racquella would get worried she was jealous and start encouraging her to find a boyfriend- "sixty is the new fifty, Auntie Theresa!"

Jason and Racquella kept up a conversation all the way through the Paleolithic Era and the Hall of Bones. By the time they reached the Civil War exhibit, they were planning their second date, and Theresa was ready to start banging her head against the elegant marble pillars. Honestly, how long can an English accent be considered funny? And wasn't Racquella even slightly put off by that weird laugh? He sounded like an elephant in heat!

At least the Civil War exhibit was interesting. Theresa wandered between mannequins adorned in uniforms, crumbling tobacco pipes, ancient journals sewn from yellowed paper and rotting leather, equally yellowed letters, broken along the folds, all the way to the far wall, adorned with black-and-white photographs. Jason made his way over to her as she studied a caricature of Robert E. Lee, for once not trailing Racquella.

"General of the Confederate army," he informed her. "Surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant in-"

"Yeah, I went to high school. Tell me, kid- what do you do here?"

He puffed out his chest a little as he leaned on the golden railing beside her. "I am "Exhibit Manager". That means I order in new stuff, get it unpacked, decide where it will go, write up all the placards, arrange any advertising if we've got a special exhibit, and ship it back out again for other museums to use." He paused and deflated a bit. "I normally work after hours."

Theresa felt an upwelling of compassion for the kid. I must be awful, to have people look at you like you were a monster. Theresa hadn't been blind to the looks he'd received- holding hands with Racquella, telling her all about the exhibits. She'd glared down a few, but there had simply been too many. He'd noticed them too, of course- the kid put on a brave face, but Theresa was damn good at reading people, if she did say so herself.

"I better get this out of the way right now," she said suddenly. "Racquella's the closest thing to a daughter I've got, and I'm not gonna let her waltz around with a patsy. If she ever gets crap about being a mutant, you do something about it, cause you can be damn well sure she will. In addition to that, you hurt her, you die."

He nodded solemnly.

"Good," said Theresa. This little speech had been given to all the boys Racquella had dated- though she hadn't liked any of them nearly as much as she liked Jason. She would admit that on pain of death.

"In any case," she announced, patting the kid on the shoulder and turning to face him, "you owe me lunch, so- holy _crap._"

"What?" asked Jason, but she didn't hear him. Instead, she walked, as if in trance, toward the photograph on the wall behind him.

"What are you- oh, that? That's the Union Forty-Seventh Regiment. What are you-"

"But that's Logan," said Theresa in a dazed tone of voice. She shook herself internally. Yeah, she was surprised- no need to sound like she'd been toking weed.

"What?"

"I'll tell you later," Theresa decided. "Lunch?"

"So the dude in the picture was that Logan guy?"

"It had to have been, Racquella. It looked just like him." Theresa popped her French fry in her mouth.

"But nobody's _that_ old!"

"It was him. I know it."

"That was a pretty faded picture, Theresa," Jason said diplomatically. "Maybe it was a relative?"

"Twin brother, maybe. Father, _maybe._ Anything further away? Not a chance."

"Are you-"

"Yes, I'm sure! It was him!" snapped Theresa, so loudly that several people at the tables around them turned to look. The three were sitting in a cute little burger joint near the museum. The smell coming off the kitchen was indescribably good, and the line probably would have been out the door if the hostess's eyes didn't glow purple. As it was, the place was about half full, and most of the customers had that hunted look Theresa was used to seeing on mutants' faces. A low fog of chatter covered the room.

"I'll do some digging," Jason said finally. "Official records don't really go that far back, but we've got the names of quite a few of the men in that photo."

"I have a theory," said Racquella. "You said he was a feral?"

"He didn't age," agreed Theresa. "And he was sniffing me. So, yeah."

"Sniff- never mind. That comes with a healing factor, right?"

The waitress came by with their check. Everyone thanked her and she smiled, revealing a pair of long, snakelike fangs.

"Where are you going with this, kid?" Theresa asked, crumpling her napkin and dropping it on her plate.

"Alright, say you had a healing factor and needed a job. What would you pick?"

"A war," said Jason. Great, they were already reading each other's minds.

"Bingo," said Racquella, smiling at him. It was a very big smile.

_Kid, if you keep this up, the sweetness is gonna give me diabetes._

Racquella gave no sign that she'd heard. "So why don't you look up records from the World Wars, Korea, Vietnam…?

"I can do that," Jason said with a nod. "Though there may be some classified stuff-"

"I can handle that," Theresa interrupted. "Remember I told you I'm a psychologist?"

Jason nodded.

"Well, I work for the government, at a detainment facility for criminal mutants. I can get through a lot of firewalls for the particular case this is relevant to." Okay, maybe not _super_ relevant…

"Which case?" asked Jason, picking up his soda glass. Racquella, more experienced with her aunt's confidentiality rules, didn't bother.

She was in for a surprise today, however. "Can't say much, kid. But I'll tell you this much- _gay cape_."

Jason spewed soda across the table, and despite receiving a liberal spattering, Theresa grinned.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur. Theresa caught up with Racquella, took her shopping and to the bookstore, and helped her pick out clothes for her date. Jason came by at six o'clock sharp, on Sunday evening- upon catching sight of Racquella in her mint-green dress, he turned bright red beneath his yellowing bruises and stammered unintelligibly for almost thirty seconds. As Racquella darted off to put his bouquet of pink tulips in a vase, Theresa seized him by his tie and hauled his face down to her level.

"Okay, Jason," she said in a friendly tone, smiling at him in a manner remniscient of an orca smiling at a baby seal. "You're gonna be keeping your hands in appropriate places this evening, yes?"

He gulped and nodded vigorously.

"And you're going to be a perfect gentleman, yes?"

More nods.

"Good." She released his tie and was crossing over to the sideboard by the time Racquella came back in. She pulled out her cell phone.

"What's your number, kid?"

He reeled off a string of digits as Racquella made faces at her.

"If you two aren't back by eleven, Racquella's sleeping on the balcony. Drink responsibly."

"Auntie Theresa!" Racquella whined. "I'm not sixteen anymore!"

"Yes you are," said Theresa unflappably. At Racquella's glare- "fine, be back by twelve."

Racquella beamed, darted up to kiss her on the cheek, and was gone.

Racquella opened the door at 12:15. Ordinarily Theresa would have given her a glare, but the dazed, soppy grin on her face softened her heart.


	5. Chapter 5

Theresa was up bright and early the next morning. She went for her run, battled with her hair, and caught the train on time.

Francisco and Jon were their usual gregarious selves, but something icy was oozing up and down her spinal cord. She shoved it out of her way.

Entering the facility, she felt like her stomach was trying to crawl into her feet. Going down in the elevator was the equivalent of descending into hell. She kept her expression blank for the sake of the elevator guard, but her brain was screaming.

_Oh my god, I am going to die._

Some part of herself that still had a spine slapped the whiny part across the face. Quit gibbering and think, you moron!

The elevator door opened. She stumbled out. Stanley Hunt stood there, a sullen look on his face. A spark of mischievous glee made her smile at him pleasantly.

"Hi, Stanley! How's the family?"

He turned an ugly shade of puce, but did not answer. A female guard called Ellen Wolf patted her down, and Theresa lifted her pen and notepad as she stepped through the metal detector. It beeped. She went through two more times, removing her belt and heels, respectively.

"Sorry about the shoes," said Ellen.

"Not a problem," Theresa assured her. "Hated the damn things anyway, and who knows? He might have a foot fetish."

Ellen snickered. Stanley Hunt opened his mouth and then thought better of it.

In a pencil skirt and a pair of stockings, as well as one of her favorite purple shirts, she followed Ellen down a long, gleaming white hallway. Her bruises were yellowing, but impossible to cover up with makeup- she wondered what Magneto would think of them.

Ellen stopped. A set of doors opened with a pneumatic hiss. She stepped through, alone, and they snapped shut behind her. The guard posted in front of the inner door snapped to attention. "Will you require company inside, ma'am?" he inquired respectfully.

"No thank you," said Theresa in a surprisingly calm tone. The guard nodded and the door opened with a pneumatic hiss.

Theresa's first impression was _white_. Everything in the small room- from the bed to the carpet to the walls to the chair to the uniform of it's occupant- was white as snow.

"That's gotta make eating _terrifying,_" Theresa noted.

"What?" asked the man in the chair, on the other side of a clear glass table. Magneto (presumably) had been reading a book as she came in- now he looked somewhat taken off guard by her words. Theresa had a feeling that he probably had planned to completely ignore her- he did think of her as an inferior species, unworthy of his notice, plus he'd taken that tactic with most of his other psychologists- and indeed, there was a flicker of irritation on his face as he clamped his mouth shut.

"The colors. Or rather, the lack thereof. If it were me in here, I'd be terrified of spilling something."

Magneto blinked.

"Of course, isn't white technically a combination of all the colors?" Theresa continued. "So, I guess, in theory at least, you've got that whole "Roy G. Biv" thing going on, but all I'm saying is, I'd avoid Italian food if I were you, because marinara sauce on this carpet-"

"Who _are_ you?" demanded Magneto. And, before she could answer- "white is _not_ a combination of all the colors. White _light_ is a combination of every color of the rainbow- that's red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, or Roy G. Biv, as the Americans say-"

"Not to mention "Richard of York gave battle in vain," Theresa chimed in helpfully. "Or-"

"_Or_ a combination of the three primary colors of light, blue, red, and-"

"Yellow?" Theresa interrupted, awaiting the fireworks. This was easier than she'd thought.

"_No!_ _Green!_ How on earth did you become a psychologist if you didn't even know _that?_"

She could probably have pointed out that _light_ wasn't really a required course for psychologists. Instead, Theresa looked confused. "How did you know I was a psychologist?" she asked, trying not to punch the air in triumph. This was working!

"It's not exactly rocket science!" snapped Erik Lenksher. "You wander in here, not in uniform, carrying one of those infernal _clipboards_-"

"What's wrong with my clipboard?" demanded Theresa, in a whiny tone of voice. Now would be a very bad time to burst out laughing.

"You're going to scribble something down on it every five minutes and then look up at me like you expect me to be _intimidated,_" spat Magneto. "I am so _tired_ of you people trying to _intimidate_ me- I have faced things far beyond your comprehension, you inferior chimpanzee, and all your irritating psychologists and your needle-toting scientists are… not… scary. In fact-"

He froze. A look of dawning horror stole across his face.

Knowing the game was up, Theresa snickered. "I became a psychologist, Mr. Lensherr, because I am very, very good at getting people to talk to me. Now, about these things you faced, the ones beyond my comprehension- how would you like to tell me about them?"

He was still staring at her. "You should probably close your mouth," she said helpfully. "Not that you don't have nice teeth but they're a little crooked. Though I suppose that's the very definition of not having nice teeth-"

"Stop talking," He snapped.

"That's kind of a rude way to ask, don't you think? In fact, until you ask nicely, I think I'll just keep-"

"_Please _stop talking. If you think you can manage it."

"Sure, I can do that. Hey, while you're coming to terms with your ignominious defeat at the hands of a mere mortal, do you mind if I-" she reached across the table to snag his book.

"_The Prince_? And in the original Italian, too. That… doesn't really tell me much I didn't already know. Are you actually reading this because you enjoy it, or are you just pandering to clichés? Because if so, I can totally slip you a copy of _Mein Kampf_."

A barely-visible flinch ran through him. He must have known she'd seen it, because he spoke at once, before she had time to ponder. "You haven't won anything. You've merely scored a point, Ms…"

"Cain," Theresa said brightly, sticking her hand over the table. "Theresa Cain. Like, you know, Bond, James Bond?"

He did not appear amused. "I did not realize governments taught their psychologists to _annoy_ patients into giving away personal information." He ignored her hand.

"It's a personal technique. Patented and everything." She put her hand up in front of his face and wiggled her fingers enticingly.

"Stop that."

"Nope. Shake, boy."

He gave her a disgusted look.

"Come on, Mr. L. There's no call to be rude."

Apparently appealing to old-fashioned courtesy worked- he shook her hand with a barely disguised grimace.

"Out of curiosity, why didn't you shake my hand? Did you think I would infect you with my inferiority?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why should I speak to you?" he asked. Now that he wasn't snapping, she could hear his accent. It was not unpleasant.

"Crap," she said, sitting back in her chair with a frown. "I expected it to last longer."

"What?"

"You being taken off guard," she explained. This guy would like the flattery- "I was hoping to establish a status quo before you clammed up."

He smirked. "Does that get me a point?"

She gave him a glare. "Being quick to recover from losing a point does not earn you a point."

"Fair enough. So answer my question, Dr. Cain- why should I talk to you?"

"Alright." She leaned forward, plopped down her clipboard. "You, have something that I want."

"Which is?"

"Answers, in order to find out the way your head works. You're not a particularly complicated individual, but you do interest me, and it is kind of my job to complete a psych eval, with an interest towards predicting any future actions in the event of an escape."

He cocked his head. "Why do you find me interesting?" he asked- not particularly surprised by the fact. Theresa found that annoying.

Theresa shrugged. "You did try to kill me."

He sat up straighter, though his posture had been perfect before. "I most certainly did not attempt to kill _you_, Miss Cain."

"You were behind the mental assault targeted at every human being on the planet," Theresa pointed out. "I have excellent clearance- had you not been stopped, I would most certainly be dead. A lot of people did die."

He did not respond for a moment. Then- "It was the only way, Ms. Cain," he said. "You cannot possibly understand it until you have lived through what I have lived through." He sounded impossibly sad and old beyond measure. He also sounded like kind of an asshole.

"Which is?"

"Surely it is in my file," he said, sounding taken aback.

"I didn't read your file," she said, plopping her piece of paper on the table.

"Why ever not?"

She shrugged, locking eyes with him. His were gunmetal grey and depressing, just like the rest of this place, surrounded by careworn wrinkles, few of which were laugh lines. "Why should I speak to you?"

A flash of irritation lit his face, visible only because she was watching for it. Despite what she'd said (partly in order to make him drop his guard) he was still off-balance- plus she'd gotten him interested. She'd avoided anything about his history (she didn't even know what country he was from, though Lensherr sounded German) but from what she'd read of his former psychologist's notes, he'd managed to ignore them so well simply because he genuinely did not care what they did or what they thought- why should such inferior beings matter to one such as he?

But now she'd gotten him, however unwillingly, interested in her. Now she wasn't just a faceless prison psychologist- she had a personality, and entertainment value. She was unique.

(And if she'd gotten that way by being annoying, well, that was just the icing on the cake.)

"I've studied a little psychology, you know," he said- cautiously, feeling her out. "Now you're appealing to my competitive side and trying to subliminally convince me that _I _am the one who wishes to talk to _you_, and not the other way around."

Theresa raised a brow. "That doesn't get you a point either," she said, but she was taken aback, and both of them knew it. Crap.

"We were discussing what we wanted from each other?" she asked, leaning back. "I wanted my psych eval, you wanted me to die horribly, for reasons I cannot understand?"

He ignored that last bit. "Why didn't you read my file, Ms. Cain?"

"How can I convince you to talk to me, Mr. Lensherr?"

He cocked his head, his eyes not wavering from her own. "You can talk back."

"That's it?"

He sighed, settling back in his chair. "I am- somewhat bored in here, Ms. Cain. Books can only do so much. A conversation now and then, even from…"

"A woman? A human? An inferior chimpanzee? A bitch?"

"Yes," he said immediately, and she laughed.

"Also," he confided, "you are- interesting. You wish to know how my mind works, I want the same from you."

That was a terrible idea. It went against every single thing she had been taught in college. Psychologists were supposed to be sounding boards, of a sort- utterly objective, little personality. Of course, she'd already thrown that bit out of the metaphorical window into the metaphorical trashcan, so... "I can deal with that."

"On one condition." He leaned forward again, impassioned. "Do _not_ read my file, Ms. Cain. I will answer yes or no to any assumption you care to offer, and you have my word I shall not lie- but if you wish to know my history you will need to _guess_."

_He really doesn't want me to read that file_, thinks Theresa. His tone is calm, friendly, even, but underlying it, is an edge of frustrated panic. And beneath that…

Nothing this man had done so far had given her any cause to think that he was capable of murdering anyone, much less seven billion people. He had been scrupulously polite, with a kind of old-fashioned courtesy and a witty tongue that ordinarily would have made her like him quite a bit, and probably would have made her flirt with him. But underneath…

Underneath the façade was a deep, choking, volcanic anger, a blackened, churning cesspool of ash and hate settled deep into this man's bones. That was the kind of seething rage that smothered other emotions, dragging them to the bottom of the bubbling tar pit and sending them to the top unrecognizable. He'd nursed that anger, when he was younger, fed it little bits of hate and rage over every real and imagined slight, and then he'd begun to use it.

Theresa knew a little something about that kind of anger.

And so, once again ignoring everything she'd ever been taught- "I accept your proposal," said Theresa, and put her hand across the table for another shake.


	6. Chapter 6

Short, I know, but it sets up a pretty big piece of the storyline. Reviews welcome as always- thanks to everyone who has favorited of followed. Enjoy!

She was late for work again on Tuesday, meeting with the sergeant at the police station. It did not go well.

Sergeant Stevens was a fat man. That was the first thing she noticed. His hair was oily, combed forward to cover up his balding forehead, and his beard- the same dull brownish color as his hair- was grown long to cover his double chin. His uniform was expertly tailored to conceal his bulk as best as it could, and he had a habit of wetting his thin lips with his tongue that made Theresa shiver in disgust.

Sergeant Stevens was an asshole. That was the second thing she noticed.

"Are you _sure_ that's what happened?" He asked for the tenth time. "Because we have heard a very different story from the supposed perpetrators of this little incident."

"Sergeant, she's given you the story," snapped Anne Cullinger. "Several times in fact! This "little incident" was a vicious hate crime and those men will do time for attempted _murder_ if the DA's office has _anythin'_ to say about it!"

"Ms. Cullinger," Stevens soothed, "you must understand, we can't afford to leave any stone unturned in a high-profile case like this."

High profile. Right. That was another lovely piece of news.

Theresa had been stepping out of her taxi at the police station when all five feet of Anne Cullinger had come barreling towards her with her usual narrow focus. Feet, toes, and children on the ground before her would have been collateral damage as she drove straight through the crowd, had the sheer force of her personality not parted them like Moses and the Red Sea. Anne Cullinger was short and stout, with mocha-colored skin like wrinkled velvet. Her kinky hair was cropped short and she wore little makeup and a loose maroon pantsuit.

"Theresa Cain!" snapped the assistant District Attorney, wife of Jonah's youngest brother. "What fool thing have you done this time?" Her words were fierce, as was the kiss she planted on Theresa's cheek.

"Charming as ever, Anne," said Theresa. "How're the kids?"

"Don't you try to distract me, woman! What were you thinking? I don't care what Racquella says about age and crap, you are too _old_ to be brawlin' in back alleys! Next thing you'll be gettin' into bar fights! Goin' parasailin'! Smokin' joints! Lord have mercy, don't you be gettin' no tattoo! That kind o' thing don't work with wrinkles, Cain!"

"Anne!"

She propped her hands on her ample hips, still glaring. "Whatever you had planned when you started this mess, you have really stepped in it now, girl. We are in it up to our necks, and we ain't that tall!"

"Why?" asked Theresa. "Jonah said it would be an open-and-shut case."

"Why?" Anne turned around, throwing her arms out wide. "Why, she asks me!" she cried. "Lord have mercy, we are _doomed!_" Ignoring the stares from the passerby, she spun back around and pinned Theresa to the spot with a look. "My brother-in-law is not the person to go to for legal advice! What did you think was gonna happen when you waded into those three idiots, Cain?"

The correct answer was something along the lines of "_thinking?_ Should I have been _thinking?_" but if she said that Anne would probably hit her with her purse.

"I assumed they would be arrested, there would be a trial, I would need to testify, and they would go to jail. No muss, no fuss."

Anne snorted. "That's what _should_ happen, girl, and with any luck that's what _will_ happen. But luck or not, you just flung a big bucketful o' gasoline on a pile o' lumber."

"Why?" asked Theresa, kicking herself. She knew where this was going.

"Because mutant/human relations are a minefield you just danced all over! Do you understand how big this is, girl? The FoH, the Church of Humanity- make no mistake, they're sending over their best right now, because this puts a huge hole in their "mutant are dangerous" theory- the kid could have killed them all with one hand behind his back, but he held off until they attacked you- a _human._ A human, who interfered to save the life of a mutant- half of Richmond is gonna want you dead, Cain, and someone's gonna try to make you that way! Mutant rights groups are gonna pounce on this and make you a hero- I hope you look forward to havin' your face plastered on billboards! It's been quiet so far, but when the papers get ahold o' this it is gonna be a media _storm!_ You'll get offered thousands for an exclusive, people'll wanna interview you on talk shows- and once they find out where you work-" Anne flung her hands up in the air. "This case'll get trotted forward as arguments for and against bills, some moron secretary is gonna brand you a traitor to your people- I wouldn't be surprised if Hank McCoy himself flew his furry blue butt down from Washington to talk to you!"

"I- I need to sit down," said Theresa quietly. There was a buzzing noise in her ears. The people around her looked blurry.

"Of _course_ you need to sit down, girl!" Anne seized her by the arm and half-supported, half-dragged her into the police station. "We're here to see Sergeant Stevens!" she snapped at the secretary, ignoring the five people in line before her. "And trust me when I say he'll want us in ASAP!" She thrust Theresa into an uncomfortable plastic blue chair. "Don't you be faintin' on me now, Cain, 'cause you ain't even heard the best part!"

"There's _more?_" Theresa managed. Did the universe have it in for her or something?

"'Fraid so, Cain. One of those thugs you beat up was named Alfonse Lamarr."

"And…"

"And that's the mayor's brother, Cain!"

"…shit."


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry it's been so long! I was on vacation. I've got quite a few more chapters lined up- this is pretty long, hope you like it. Please review. Enjoy!

Her next conversation with Magneto was on Wednesday. She came prepared, with no clipboard and a blue magic marker.

"Where were you born?" she asked abruptly.

"Why didn't you sleep well last night?" he asked, taking in her appearance with a judgmental air. Apparently they were doing question for question. "Also, won't you sit down?"

"In a sec." she leaned over the table to the wall on the far end. Pulling out her marker, she drew a chart shaped like a large "t" and labeled one side T.C. and the other E.L. Then she plopped down into her chair.

"What is that?"

"Point chart. Wait-" she drew a single tally-mark on her side of the chart. "Now. Where were you born?"

"Poland. Why didn't you sleep well last night?"

"Why do you want to know?"

He raised an eyebrow.

She looked at her hands, folded demurely on the table. "I was… scared. To sleep alone. So I went to a bar, picked up a not-gentlemen half my age- do you need more details?"

"That will suffice." His lip curled. "Not a very grown-up pursuit, Ms. Cain."

"Valid observation, but you don't get a point."

"Here's another observation, then- the reason you're scared has to do with those lovely bruises you're sporting."

She didn't respond, but drew a tally on his side of the board. He smirked. "So what is it, Ms. Cain? Husband, boyfriend?"

She gave him a glare.

"Gambling bookie?" He offered. Surprised, she snorted against her will.

"There's a newspaper article in my pocket you may find interesting." She said at last. "It'll answer your question. But you owe me two answers."

"What are the questions?"

"What were your thoughts when you first discovered you could move metal?"

"Acceptable."

"How did you parents die?"

"Unacceptable."

She gave him a speculative look. His face revealed nothing.

He didn't like her, she realized. She wasn't entirely sure whether it was just her species or something else-

"Why do you dislike me?"

"Acceptable, though rather unexpected. I am surprised."

"Ever noticed how your surprised face and your unsurprised face look exactly the same?"

He didn't flinch. "The article, please."

She gave it to him. He read it. She'd very nearly had a heart attack when she'd found it on her doormat- the huge, headline letters on the front page reading GOVERNMENT WORKER ASSAULTS FRIENDS OF HUMANITY MEMBERS ON BEHALF OF MUTANT, along with the surprisingly accurate article below it, had left her breathing deeply, leaning weak-kneed against her doorjamb. Her ill-considered conquest from last night (Henry? Harry?) had already left, thank god, but a passing neighbor had looked at her askance as he walked back home from the night shift at the E.R. She hadn't really meant to pick up some stranger in a bar- she'd just wanted to be around people. The thought of going back to her empty apartment had been terrifying, and she kept imagining Anne's promised assassin leaping out of her closet, and she'd had quite a few shots of vodka, so when the well-built thirtysomething business-man had cosied up beside her and started talking about his cold hotel room bed she'd taken the drink he bought her. She'd been able to sleep a bit with him snoring next to her, but she'd been in a terrible mood for most of the morning, wavering between shame, terror and rage. She'd done the right thing in saving Jason, she knew it- so why did she feel like she was being punished for something?

"Thank you," he said as he handed it back. "On behalf of my people." She gave him a surprised look, but he appeared totally sincere.

"They're my people, too, Mr. Lensherr," she said quietly. He did not respond.

She sighed. "What were your thoughts when you first discovered you could move metal?"

He leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "I cannot remember a time when I did not know… when I did not feel it. Around me."

"What's it like?"

He gave her a reproving glance. It was a really annoying look on him- he kind of cocked his eyebrow and tilted his chin and his eyelids yanked up. "Is that your second question?"

"I'm just curious. You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

There was a flicker at that sentence that she resolved to ponder later. He gave her a considering stare. "It is like- singing," he said at last. "The most glorious of songs, but I don't hear it. I can feel the melody in my bones."

"You miss it."

He ignored her. The flicker of emotion he had shone when describing the metal disappeared. "When I was seven, my mother dropped a knife. I caught it, with my mind. She looked at me like I had grown a second head. I felt both excited, because the metal was singing louder than ever before and it was the best feeling in the world, and scared, because my mother looked- terrified. She asked me to put the knife down. I did so. She asked me to pick it up again and I could not."

"Why not?"

"Is that your second question?"

"Why do you dislike me?"

He straightened. "You are rude and uncouth. You are immature and do not take me seriously. You are a human and thus inferior. And I despise your profession."

She made a "go-on" gesture with her left hand.

"A man's mind should be his own. What is in my head is none of your business. Your entire job is to- to crawl inside a man's skull and poke and poke to see what comes out, and then you criticize it as if you had any knowledge of what made it that way, and you offer _advice,_ like you know anything at all." There was that anger in his voice, the deep knot of rage he had nursed for so long, fury at some remembered hurt.

"Wow. Don't sugarcoat it, Mr. Lensherr. Tell me how you _really_ feel."

The black rage was replaced by annoyance. Good. She was about to annoy him some more.

"Your dislike for psychiatrists began with your association with Professor Charles Xavier."

He sat ramrod straight like he'd received an electric shock. "You told me you had not read my file!"

"I didn't. I spoke briefly to the professor, who informed me that he had known you previously and that you had parted "badly." The professor's mutant abilities were already known to me for reasons entirely unrelated to you. The inference was my own. Do I get a point?"

He grumbled, but nodded. She drew a tally-mark and sat back. "You know, telling your problems to an impartial observer can be helpful."

"No one is impartial, Ms. Cain."

"It's my job to act that way."

"You do it fairly well. Your face did not even twitch when I called you inferior."

"Not my job to argue with patients." No matter how completely, embarrassingly, _pathetically_ wrong they were.

"And just because I'm an overachiever," she said, bringing the conversation back to it's proper track, "your parents died when you were a child."

Another expressionless nod, another tally. "And thirdly-"

"A moment, if you please," Lensherr said with old-fashioned courtesy. She looked at him expectantly and he leaned forward to examine her intently.

"You are estranged from most, if not all, of your family." Well, that was unexpected.

"How did you know-"

"Most people would call a relative of some sort to comfort them were they scared to go home because important people were angry at them. You, a forty-year-old woman, had a one-night stand."

"I'm fifty-seven," she said, offering him the marker.

"You're joking."

"Nope. If it helps, you're not bad-looking either."

He choked. "I was not- that was not what I meant to imply-"

"Oh my god, you're actually blushing!"

"No, I am not."

She laughed delightedly.

"Didn't you have another assumption?" he demanded.

Theresa's merriment died. "Whoever took care of you after they died mistreated you because of your power."

His jaw worked- he added another tally to her side.

"Undoubtedly you _were_ superior to him. But it wasn't because of your power."

"Do not patronize me, Ms. Cain," he snapped. "I neither want nor require _your_ sympathy." His emphasis on the _your_- something flared in her chest.

"No, you don't need anyone's sympathy, do you? In fact, you don't _need_ anyone." She was leaning forward, impassioned, and her words were coming out in that soft, mockingly-sweet tone she uses when she'd undeniably pissed, and she knew she should stop but something about this man just rubbed her the wrong way- "does the pretty blue girl know she's unnecessary? Valuable, certainly, but not needed at all, because if you _need_ people they'll only disappoint-"

He slammed his fist down on the table. The bang echoed around the room and she jerked back. "How dare you?" he spat. "You have no idea, none at all-" he choked, briefly, mastering his anger, and when he leant towards her his tone echoed her own. "I don't think I _require_ relationship advice from a woman who sleeps with a stranger because she's scared of monsters in her closet, do I? After all, if you were such an _expert_ on healthy relationships you would have some with your relatives-"

Rage carried her to her feet- she was trembling with it. "-relatives, hmm? Was that it? Some relative, someone who should have loved you but didn't, someone who told you deserved whatever he did because you were a freak? Because that's not new, _Erik,_ that's the oldest story in the book-"

He stood up. His chair fell over behind him with a loud bang. "Get out," he said coldly. "Now."

She could have told him she didn't have to listen to him. But his voice trembled slightly and his eyes looked suspiciously wet, and looking at him made her feel about an inch tall. She left, trying not to feel like terrible person.

She did not succeed.

That _bitch._

It was a foul word. He probably should not be thinking it. Or saying it out loud.

Or punching the wall.

It had not accomplished much- the walls were padded, after all, like in an asylum. They thought him mad.

He could accept that. Their opinions were irrelevant, and in truth he could see their point. He _had_ tried to murder them all, as the bitch had pointed out. As if it were not obvious.

He had known, when he had done it, what would happen. It had been an impulsive decision, but he had thought it over, afterwards, had accepted it, too, but the bi- the woman-

She had gotten under his skin, as the saying went. Poked some old sores and opened a few new ones. Raven-

No. Her name was Mystique. Raven was her old name, back when she belonged to Charles, a prisoner to her own self-conciousness, her own fear. Now she was- glorious. Evolution at it's finest. A tiger.

But did he _need_ her?

Well, of course not. No one _truly_ needed anyone. Raven was valuable to the cause, certainly, but it would continue on without her. Without him, too, if necessary.

He'd been so close. So close to saving everyone, to forging a new world, to ensuring that his people would be safe, all of them safe, safe from the human, inferior, _murdering_-

They had tried to kill his people.

They had tried to kill them all, every single one of them, regardless of crime or allegience or age- it had been fear, of course, fear for their era was done, and the era of mutants beginning- he had foretold it, he had tried to tell Charles, it had been just as he had said- identification first and then-

-_needles blood white room screaming pain Mother_ _coin_-

-he wrenched himself out of the memory. Dwelling on such things was all very well when he needed anger to spur something-

And he had needed it. That moment, in the tunnels under the dam, Mystique screaming on the floor beside him- he remembered it only in fractured images, as if a light were blinking on and off- he recalled the realization, days earlier in his cell, of Strykers' plans, and he knew he had not been surprised (he had warned Charles, he had, but Charles wouldn't _listen,_ he never did) but it was only at that moment when the anger had possessed him at last, an icy chill rising up from it's usual, useful place until he could taste it, bitter, on the very tip of his tongue-

-and then it was done and they were running. They passed over a town in the helicopter and he'd realized it was inhabited, that he had failed- another wave of anger, this one like boiling water, and he'd very nearly crumpled the helicopter in his rage- but then they'd arrived at the base, and he'd woke four days later to a plastic dart to the neck.

And now he was here. Here with another smug, idiot psychologist-

_Except,_ pointed out an irritating little voice in his mind that sounded suspiciously like Charles Xavier, _she got you to talk a bit, the first day. And she treats you like a person as opposed to a lab experiment. She doesn't like you, much, of course, and she doesn't pretend to, and she was very unprofessional, today, but she's terrified for her life and her family, so this would be the exception, not the rule. And she hasn't read your file-_

"She _says_ she hasn't."

_And you believe her,_ the voice returned. _You're good at spotting lies. And if you irritate her too much, your case will be given to someone else- someone else who will read your history, some other filthy homo sapiens to flip through your life from the comfort of their reading chair and feel _sorry_ for you…_

"Not if I can help it."

Oh, excellent, now he was talking to himself. Utterly fantastic.

She'd been terrible, today. Fear was hardly an excuse.

_Well, what was_ your _excuse?_ Asked Charles in his mind. This was starting to become annoying. And, even more annoying, the Charles-voice had a point. He had stabbed her right where it hurt the moment she had done it to him.

"Not remotely the same thing," he said aloud. "She-"

"_Be the better man!"_ said Charles, both now in his mind and half a century before, with the waves crashing in his ears and the body of his oldest enemy sprawled behind him.

Fine. Tomorrow, she would come in, likely defending her actions, filled with wrongful pride, and he would- what? Apologize? He snorted. _Not bloody likely._

But he'd pretend it hadn't happened at all. He could manage that much.

She left early that day. She went home, telling Jonah she was feeling ill and warding off his searching concern with a cheerful smile. She leafed through paperwork on the way home, made the necessary schedule changes on her phone, and called a few of her staff to see if they could handle her patients for today. She offered encouragment to a worried intern and advice to Gerry Brooks, who was new to the facility. Upon arrival at her apartment, she took of her clothes, put a bottle of pepper spray on her bathroom counter, turned the water of the shower as hot as it would go. Then she sat on the tiled floor, curled up as small as she could manage, and sobbed.

When she was done, she felt like a rug that had had all the dust beaten out of it. She got out of the now-freezing shower, made herself a cup of hot chocolate, and called Racquella. They talked for almost an hour, and she told her the whole mess. Then she called Jason and told him the same thing, he apologized repeatedly, and she told him exactly where he could take his apologies and exactly what he could do with them when he got there. After he had laughed, she asked what he'd discovered about Logan. He told her he was still digging, but would have a clearer picture by the weekend. She told him to be careful and hung up.

Then she called Anne. She invited her and her husband over for dinner on Friday, then called Jonah, told him she felt fine, and asked him the same thing. He accepted, relieved, and she did paperwork until nine, Hector on her lap, purring.


	8. Chapter 8

The next day dawned bright and early as usual. She slunk into Magneto's cell feeling about three feet tall.

He looked at her.

"May I sit down?"

He jerked his chin in acquiescence. She sat.

She stared at her hands. "I'd… like to apologize for yesterday. I was… rude. And… unprofessional. And I think we got off on the wrong foot."

He looked shocked.

"What?" she asked. "Not used to people admitting mistakes?"

He gave her a long look, opened his mouth, visibly hesitated, closed it, and then opened it once more. "You made me angry," he said. "All the other psychologists they sent me, they could say whatever they wished and I did not care, but you- you were-"

"-right." Theresa interrupted quietly. "Cruel. Rude. Totally out of line. Kind of a bitch. But right, I think."

He did not respond verbally, but he gave her another tally mark. She reached across the table and took the marker.

Their fingers brushed.

"You were right too, you know," she said quietly, giving him a tally. "About it being hypocritical for me to give anyone relationship advice. And the reason you care about my opinion is that I made you respect me. With that little trick earlier. Also, I gave you… power."

He cocked his head.

"Your file," Theresa clarified. "You hate exposing yourself, and the idea of the "inferior chimpanzees" poring over your history, like they have any right to know, like they have any right to judge- it drives you nuts. But now- now you can keep this particular chimpanzee from knowing your history, at least for a while. "

"Point to you," he said. "You are… not completely incompetent, Ms. Cain."

_Gee, thanks_.

"Yeah, yeah. I get that a lot." The tension lightened. His lips twitched.

"So, Mr. Lensherr. If the apologies are out of the way-"

"I have not apologized." There was no inflection in his voice- it was a statement of fact.

_That_ surprised her. "I didn't think you were sorry."

"And why shouldn't I be?" He sat up straight, offended. "A wrong is a wrong no matter upon whom it is perpetuated. I was very rude to you, and it was wrong of me."

"Wow," she said, sitting back. "Color me impressed. I know plenty of… people who wouldn't have ever admitted that. But that's not an apology."

He gave her a searching glare. "What did you intend to say?"

"What?"

"You paused before 'people.' What did you intend to say?"

She did not respond.

"Tell me," he ordered, in the tone of one who expected to be obeyed. That annoyed her. Taking a deep breath-

"Mr. Lensherr." Another breath. "It's not my job to judge, Mr. Lensherr. It's my job to remain impartial, get to know your personality, and help you with your issues. It is not my job to express my opinion of your views or beliefs."

"Tell me what you were going to say or I will not speak for the rest of the time we have here."

"Why does my opinion matter to _you_?"

He pointedly did not respond.

She grit her teeth. "Are you doing this just to get one over on me?"

No answer. Bastard.

"I was going to say," she bit out, "I know plenty of _bigoted jackasses_ who would not have admitted that."

Heavy gray brows shot together. "Are you saying that I am a bigoted jackass?"

"No. I'm _implying_ that you are a bigoted jackass."

The expression on his face was glacial. "I am not bigoted," he informed her frostily.

_Right_. "Why not?" she asked in a politely interested tone of voice.

"Oh no." he jerked upright, pointing a finger at her. "I do not want a conversation where _that_ happens."

"Where what happens?" she asked, doing her best to look clueless.

"Where you pretend not to have an opinion," he snapped. "I find it pointless and irritating, particularly when I am certain your opinion is that I am delusional and possibly psychotic! If you disagree with me on something, if you wish to say something, do it!"

"Why? _You_ certainly don't place any value on my opinion!"

"Of course I do not. But, sadly, I am stuck in a _cell_ all day. And I wish to have the occasional human interaction with someone possessing more than two brain cells, which disqualifies every guard in this facility and the vast majority of your colleagues. I wish to have a normal conversation."

"It's not my job to have _normal conversations_ with you! I am conducting a psychoanalysis!"

"It is also not your job to answer my questions about yourself. Or to bring me newspaper articles. And you will be conducting your psychoanalysis from the hallway if you keep it up. I have told you I despise psychology?"

"You have made it _abundantly_ clear."

"That is part of what I despise. In your world, _I_ would reveal all that I am and _you_ would remain a faceless mask. That is… unfair. I will not have it."

_Son of a_- "And why not?" she asked in her calmly interested tone.

His eyes flashed. He made no response.

"For someone who dislikes unfairness, you really seem to enjoy slaughtering the helpless."

It was a blatant attempt to provoke him, and they both knew it. His disdainful glare could have peeled paint.

She sat back and glared. Neither of them spoke a word for the rest of the hour, and she slammed the door behind her on the way out.


	9. Chapter 9

Theresa opened the door Friday and plopped down in her chair.

"You're a complete asshole, you know that?"

He looked almost amused. "You really do not enjoy losing, do you Ms. Cain?"

"You've merely scored a point," she mimicked in a bad imitation of his smooth, accented baritone. He had, too. Not many people could out-stubborn her.

"You wanna know what I think, Mr. Lensherr?"

"I doubt there's much to know."

"Oo, that was a _good_ one! You should have your own show!"

"Vegas," he said with a nod. "On the strip, perhaps-"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, you are king of snarksville. Whatever."

His lips curled up, very very slightly.

"So." She sat up straight and scooched her chair in till she mimicked his military posture. "You feel one set of people to be inferior because of their genetic code, a circumstance beyond their control. That sounds bigoted to me."

"Mutants," he said, "are the next stage in human evolution. The difference is more than races- it's a difference of species. Their genetic code _makes _them superior- higher up on the evolutionary ladder."

"And maybe that's even true," she said with a shrug. "Maybe humans are inferior. Not sure how well that translates into, you know, _killing_ them all, but I'm sure, if you used very small words, you could explain it to my satisfaction."

He didn't answer. His face was expressionless, but his jaw was tight.

"So now you're giving me the silent treatment?"

"Perhaps _you_ should consider it."

She laughed. "Come on, Mr. Lensherr- do you prefer Magneto?"

He cocked his head, seeming to weigh something in his mind. "Mr. Lensherr is sufficient."

"I'm _so_ glad."

He gave her a withering look.

"You should take pictures of yourself making that face," Theresa offered helpfully. "To curdle milk and scare small children."

"We appear to be getting off track."

"Fine." She leaned forward, her levity disappearing. "You attempted to kill every human being on the face of the earth, Mr. Lensherr. That's, what, seven billion people? Seven billion mothers and brothers and sisters and wives. Seven billion sons and daughters. Seven billion tiny little babies, screaming in their mother's arms while their hearts stopped or their _brains_ exploded." She was trembling.

"They tried it first." His tone was strained.

Theresa laughed hollowly. _"'They tried it first?"" _The fake mirth dropped off her face. "Are you _fucking_ kidding me?"

"Language," he said automatically. He was very still.

"English. You'd speak, what, German?"

He stared at her, uncomprehendingly. She realized she was leaning forward, like a predator about to leap. She straightened up, reining in her temper on the way. She _had_ wanted to talk to this guy- no need to lose her cool.

Except- she hadn't thought- she hadn't expected- this. She'd expected a raving madman. Someone she could pity. Someone she could try to help. He'd had an aura of rationality for his other psychologists- she'd thought if she could make him angry, get him to snap, he'd reveal what she needed so she could help him, that was her job, helping-

But he seemed so rational. _And funny and intelligent and… whoa there. Off track._ Obviously affected by what he had done, and by what she had said to him (both now and several days ago) which meant he wasn't a sociopath, and if you adopted his "eye for an eye" mentality than what he had done could conceivably make sense from a logical standpoint- when she thought about Racquella screaming on the ground, and then the person who caused it dying just like that (or drowning, tied to a concrete pylon in the middle of a lake, as she half-suspected he was) the images were not unpleasant- except, while she was naturally a tad biased, she didn't want to kill every human on the planet!

"So the little babies tried to kill you, then?" she asked, with heavy sarcasm.

"The little babies would have grown up. They would have become big men and women, with guns and needles and prisons. Humans can never accept mutants. They fear them too much." Now that he was on familiar ground, his tone strengthened. "I have seen it happen. First, identification. Then, elimination. Extinction. Whichever pretty euphemism you would care to use, it _will_ happen. While Charles' lot sits around preaching acceptance, it _is_ happening!" He was getting louder, his accent thickening.

"You've _seen_ it? Got some psychic powers I don't know about?"

His glare was poisonous, his tone oddly frantic. "Are you mad? It almost did happen! They almost destroyed my people, and I could not, _will_ not allow them to do it again! How much more evidence do you need? I will not allow any more children, my _people's_ children, to-" he cut off abruptly, as if gagged.

It was too late though. She had figured it out. She could see it in his eyes that he knew. "Could not allow my people to be destroyed… again?"

He didn't move. She wasn't even sure he was breathing.

Her tone was soft, gentle even. "You were born in Poland- sixty-seven years ago. A pause. "Lensherr's a _Jewish_ name, isn't it?"

He stared at the table.

"Mr. Lensherr-" she reached across the clear glass to grab his hand. The moment her skin brushed his, he yanked his hand back as if burned.

"Please leave, Doctor Cain." His tone was cool, relaxed. They might have been talking about the weather.

She got up and walked out. As she shut the door behind her, she happened to glimpse him lifting her blue magic marker to add a tally-mark to her side.


	10. Chapter 10

_Ding dong!_ The doorbell rang. Hector, perched on the counter, hissed in surprise and ran for the hall. Doubtless he would spend the entire dinner party slash legal meeting slash boyfriend-hazing session hiding under her bed. Theresa finished putting her enchilada dish in the oven, stripped off her mitts, checked her reflection in the mirror over the hall table, and went to answer the door. Anne and her husband Harry waited beyond, along with their youngest son Jonah Junior, about thirty-four and universally called J.J, along with his boyfriend Sanjay Patel, who had been Racquella's favorite babysitter growing up. She hugged all four of them and was just admiring the flowers they had brought her when the oven beeped, signaling the need to remove her _pan dulce con chocolate,_ Mexican sweet bread with chocolate drizzled on top. She'd barely handled that when the bell rang for Jonah, who'd driven with Anne and Harry's oldest son Terry, Terry's wife Diana, and their adorable five-month-old Chelsea. Racquella was picking up Jason ("And how is it that you know where he lives, dearest niece?" "Auntie Theresa!" "Just messin' with you, kiddo.… was it fun?" "Auntie Theresa!") so until they got here she could set the table-

_Ding-dong! _It never stopped, did it? She opened the door, expecting to be confronted with Jason and Racquella-

"Theresa Cain?" asked the small, sleekly smiling man outside her door. He smelled of expensive cologne and his nails were expertly manicured. Theresa despised him on sight.

"Who the hell are you?"

His smile faltered slightly. Maybe he was surprised she didn't greet him by kowtowing and chanting "hail to the messiah!"

"You are Theresa Cain?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I am from the Friends of Humanity," the man said, and she knew instantaneously her initial reaction had been justified. "May we speak in private?"

Theresa stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her.

He looked around. "A tad more private than this, please." It was not a request.

She contained her first reaction, a highly graphic piece of advice learned from conversations with Francisco and Jon, and went with her second. "No."

"_Excuse _me?" He appeared to be trying to stare her down. It was kind of hilarious.

"I have guests. It's a small apartment. This is as private as it gets. Talk out here or leave. Or better yet, just leave."

He took a deep breath. "Ms. Cain. We at Friends of Humanity have been made aware of the possibility of your testimony against certain members of our organization. We wish to discuss the possibility of your rescinding testimony." He gave her a conspiratorial wink. "There would, of course, be compensation, of a- material- form, though you understand-"

She punched him in the face.

He stumbled backwards, clutching a bleeding nose. She called him every foul name she had ever heard and made up a few on the spot. He spat back several, rather less creative terms and moved down the hall, where Jason and Racquella were emerging, Jason holding a file folder. He caught sight of Jason, blanched, and muttered something as he went by; Racquella stuck out her leg and tripped him. They practically skipped up to her, hand in hand.

"FoH?" asked Jason. "He had the look."

She kissed her niece on the cheek and ruffled his orange hair. "What look?"

"Like a live eel was trying to wriggle up his digestive tract."

Racquella snickered and cast him a fond glance. God_,_ she hoped they were being safe.

"Well, c'mon in, kids. It's time Jason here met the family."

Jason did indeed meet the family. Introductions came first, with Anne giving Racquella her frank appraisal ("Pretty face, darlin', but I've met _cancer patients_ with bigger muscles, he better have a personality") and Sanjay flirting incorrigibly ("I hear you're the big, strong man who rescued my darling Theresa.") He appeared to pass muster, noting Terry's Marine jacket and thanking him for his service, and appearing quite taken with little Chelsea, as well as responding to Sanjay's quip without batting an eyelash ("no, your darling Theresa is the big, strong man who rescued me." … "Ouch!" "Auntie Theresa!" "…My foot slipped.")

The enchiladas were a rousing success. Dinner conversation was cheerful and loud, changing topics every five minutes, except for Harry and Jason, who had been seated beside each other and who kept up an avid discussion of World War II history until the plates were clean. Theresa tried not to think about it.

Everyone took second helpings of pan dulce despite having stuffed themselves earlier. Then they gathered around the table once more, nursing cups of coffee (or a baby, in Diana's case) to listen to Anne.

"Alright, so. We're lookin' at prosecutin' three people." She reached into her enormous purse, pulled out a binder, and removed three pictures. "That there is Gordon Ganvier, that one's Gerry Ganvier,-" pimple and the drunk one, respectively- "and this here's the big one- Alfonse Lamarr." She tapped the photo. "Lord, he's ugly. He walks into a room with that beard and any jury with eyes'll convict him on the spot."

"I take it that's not all that likely?" asked Racquella.

"You take it right, girlie. The FoH is sendin' their best." She pulled out another photo. It was the greasy little man from the hall. "This here's Jack T. Jordain the third."

"Jack T. Jordain _the third?" _asked Racquella incredulously.

"If I had that name, I'd probably be pretty angry too," said Jason.

"Hold on a second." Theresa flung her arms out as if directing traffic. "That guy's the _defense lawyer?"_

"Yeah," Anne said suspiciously.

"Oh no. I know that look," said Jonah. "Cain, what'd you do now?"

"Auntie Theresa just punched that man in the face," said Racquella. "Hey, anyone else want another cup of coffee?"

When the furor had died down- "In any case," said Anne, "and leavin' aside how the defense now has a personal, vested interest in ensurin' Cain here looks like a loony-tunes on the stand-"

"Didn't they already have that?" asked Racquella. "She's a human, who rescued a mutant, and beat up-"

Anne gave her a withering look. Racquella zipped her lips and tossed the key over her shoulder.

"Now, Pretty Boy. I know we've already talked about this, but tell them the story, in your own words."

Jason looked down at his hand. The position, the way he hunched in on himself- Theresa looked at him and _bam,_ she was back in the white cell, Mr. Lensherr sitting across from her in the exact same position-

She shook herself.

"I'd put in a late night," said Jason, "at the museum- I'd been unpacking the new King Tut exhibit that came in from Chicago, and working out an ad in the newspaper. I was waiting at the bus stop off Van Buren around four in the morning. There was a bar across the street. Three guys came out, staggering drunk. They saw I was a mutant, yelled a few-" he glanced at Theresa with just a hint of a rueful grin- "derogatory slurs. I ignored them, and then they crossed the street and started poking at me. I told them were they could shove it, and one of them- I think it was Gerry- hit me smack in the jaw. Next thing I knew they were dragging me into the alley, and next thing I knew after that Theresa had come along. I wasn't very lucid, but I seem to remember thinking she was an angel."

"And then she opened her mouth," said Racquella sympathetically, "dashing your hopes forevermore."

Jason looked startled, and then burst out laughing. Racquella smiled sadly and looped a hand around his arm.

"Alright, so. We're chargin' all three of them with kidnappin' and two different counts of assault- one for Cain, one for Pretty Boy. That plus the fact that you're a mutant makes it a hate crime.

"Now, Kidnappin' in Virginia's generally classy-fied as a class five felony. For that, you c'n get upta ten years in jail. Assault's gen'rally a class one misdmeanor, but if the person assaulted gets that way cause o' prejudice, then it becomes a class six felony, punishable by about two years in jail fer each case. That's twelve years fer each of 'em, so far."

"They'd lost count, Mom," droned J.J., who was a defense lawyer. Anne cuffed him around the head.

"Now here's where we get to the nitty-gritties. A hate crime is a federal offense. Fer that, you can get twenty to forty years in jail. Now, granted, they didn't beat you up too bad-"

"I've got a mild healing factor," interrupted Jason. "It's not perfect, and you can see I'm still pretty beat up, but I was in the hospital for two days. I had eight broken ribs, a severe concussion, both my wrists were fractured, and I still have cigarette burns all over my back. The wrists and ribs are about a quarter healed, but the doctors took pictures and x-rays, and two of them will testify."

"Why didn't you roast them?" asked J.J. with nothing but mild curiosity in his voice. Both he and Sanjay had plenty of reasons to dislike prejudice.

Jason shrugged. "Wrong thing to do, I guess. But when they went after Theresa-" he shrugged again.

Racquella's eyes were all soft. Was she too old to get "the talk" again?

"There's a problem, here, Mom," said J.J., "and don't pretend you don't see it."

Anne bit the inside of her lip but said nothing. Tension around the table ratcheted up, and Diana shushed Chelsea when she fussed.

"What?" asked Terry, with the air of one taking on an onerous task on one else wants.

"Technic'ly, federal laws on hate crimes don't cover mutants," Anne explained reluctantly. "They specific'ly mention race, religon, an' sexual orientation, but they don't-"

"That's _bullshit!"_ interrupted Racquella, jerking upright. "That is complete and utter-"

Jason rested a hand on her arm. She snapped her head around towards him. "Of course it's bullshit, 'Quella. There's no point shouting about it."

She sat back, still humming with anger. Theresa was impressed. It took a lot to stop Racquella once she got going.

"Yes, girlie, it's garbage. It won't work, neither, not if we get a neutral jury."

"How likely is that?" asked Diana.

"In Richmond, Virginia?" Anne shook her head at her daughter-in-law. "Ain't you ever read _To Kill a Mockingbird?"_

There was a somber silence around the table. Chelsea fussed again.

"There argument's gonna go somethin' like this- a person's genetic code, somethin' invisible an' minor, should not be grounds t' declare a hate crime. It's a violation of rights. Sentencin' person A to punishment B is a violation of amendment D cause of E."

"That… makes no sense," said Terry.

"It's lawyer talk, son," said Harry. "We lesser mortals can't hope to understand."

"That's why you joined the army, sweetheart," said Diana. "Not many ways to misunderstand pointing, shooting, and doing push ups."

"And he does those very well, doesn't he, Di?" asked Sanjay, eyeing Terry's impressive biceps with a suddenly mischievous air. J.J. made an unintelligible choking noise in the back of his throat.

"Amen," said Racquella, nodding in appraisal. Diana laughed.

Theresa scrutinized him. "I've seen bigger."

Sanjay snickered. "You know, if we took that out of context-"

"_Okay!_" said Terry. He was bright red. "Let's return to the conversation that made no sense!"

"Can they get them clear of all charges?" Jonah asked suddenly. "If the jury's hung, or paid off, can they-"

"Nah," said Anne. The levity around the table evaporated. "Th' police found them at th' scene, there was DNA evidence all over that alley- I suppose they could make up some story about bein' kidnapped, or comin' upon the scene later on, if it weren't for Cain, here."

"Can they discredit me?"

"Not a whole lot. You're a fifty-seven-year-old woman, first off, and you're tiny- that should make a few chauvinists feel all big an' strong when they put those meenies in jail, plus you're not likely to have attacked 'em without provocation."

"God bless testosterone," said Diana dryly.

"Not to mention you're hot," J.J. said bluntly. This time it was Sanjay's turn to make a choking noise. "Young jurors will see you and think of the teacher they had the hots for in high school, and old ones will see you and wish their wives kept themselves in better shape."

"God bless testosterone," said Racquella. "What about the girls?"

"Avoid girl jurors her age. They'll get jealous. Try for younger ones."

"Any more sage words o' advice fer your poor mama?" asked Anne tartly.

"Are you calling me _old?_" demanded Theresa.

Harry coughed discreetly. Everyone turned to look at him. "I believe you were in the middle of answering a question, Annie dear?"

"In any case, aside from th' physical aspects, her record's clean. No divorces. She makes good money, but she worked her way there from th' ground up. Only black bits I c'n see are Racquella an' her job."

"Black bits?" asked Jason. He looked confused, but Raquella grimaced in comprehension.

"She adopted a mutant. So long as they check the registry fer her- an' they will- they c'n find Racquella. You're registered, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then they c'n claim she made up them talking about him being a mutant. They c'n say they didn't know, that they were just teachin' a lesson t' some guy that was rude t' them, an' that when she saw he was a mutant she made up the conversation t' get 'em in more trouble, on account o' her bein' so predjudiced against normal humans, an' FoH in pertic'ler."

"That would work?" asked Terry dubiously.

"Fer a conviction? Hell, no." Anne snorted. "But they don't need to convict her of anythin'. They jus' need t' create reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury."

"In Richmond, Virginia," said Theresa.

"Maybe not the whole time," said Anne. "If we win, we're overturnin' a buttload of precedents. This could go to Supreme Court."

"You're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kiddin'?"

"Crap," muttered Theresa, dropping her forehead to the table. "Crap, crap-"

"Theresa," said Jason. "I'm so sorry-"

"Jason," interrupted Theresa, without lifting her head from the table, "you can take your apologies, and you can shove them up your-"

"What about the job?" asked Racquella.

"Oh, that's easy," said Jonah. "I'll just classify everything but the fact that she's a psychologist who works for the military. They'll assume she's dealing with PTSD and shell-shock."

"The military?" asked Jason. "I thought it was the government."

"Same difference in this case, kiddo."

"So, they can't discredit her," said Terry thoughtfully. "Not well, at least."

"There a point in there, Jarhead, or are you just summing things up?" snapped Theresa. She had a feeling she knew where this was going.

"Can they _kill _her?" asked Terry bluntly. He wasn't a particularly quick thinker, but he had a calm, methodical logic that came in handy in war zones. Theresa closed her eyes against the wood of her table.

"I imagine they could kill us all if they wanted to, sugar," said Anne. Her voice was forced casual. "FoH is smart, fanatic, and it's got more money than God."

"I meant, would it have an effect on the trial?"

"We've got her testimony on file," said J.J., but Anne shook her head.

"Sugarcoatin' ain't gonna help no one, honey-bunch. Defense lawyer gets ahold o' that they poke it fulla holes like swiss cheese. Not to mention files disappear all the time. Mysterious fire. Computer crash. You know the drill."

"So, basically, she's a walking target," said Racquella. She wasn't surprised- they'd gone over this two days ago on the phone.

"Basic'ly," said Anne.

No one spoke around the table for quite some time.


End file.
